"I'm sure." He draws a breath. "I've had a lot of people die in my life. I can handle that loss better than I could if you pushed me away or left to 'spare' me."
He looks up at K, immediately concerned. "Yeah. Yeah, we're fine." He is wondering how many people K has told. "I'm just going to want to see more of you this year."
"The years seem to go in cycles mostly. Four, six, eight. I wasn't... terribly concerned about last year, unless the city disrupted something. But this year..."
He trails off, looking down at his hands. He's never had anyone to talk to it about before, not that he would talk to about it, which makes it strange.
If he's not very, very careful, he thinks he could lose his mind a bit with this man. He kisses him again, because he has no words for a moment, just this, just himself.
K's other hand slides around his waist, both supporting him,enjoying the solidity of him, and pulling him closer.
Which is, maybe, when the new nut subtle note to this might become more pronounced: he wants to stay here. He wants more of this, wants to be close to Jesus, wants to feel like this and whatever else comes with it for however long he has and then just one moment more.
He wants it, and he's sure he can't have it, not for long enough. So he speaks it up while he can, bittersweet and precious.
"We should go to the bed then," he muses, because tabletops and bent over the sofa seem like a lot for someone's second time. "I want to go slow with you."
"You won't hurt me," he promises; he could, it's possible of course, especially in this way when he can walk away from explosions and impalement and all manner of blunt trauma.
"Upstairs," he decides. "We'll kick Nibbles out so he can meet Mango." There are plenty of places for him to climb up to get away from her if he needs, so Jesus isn't worried about babysitting them.
K has worked both his hands under Jesus's clothes by now to warm skin, although it's still mostly idle - "Lead the way," he agrees. - until, anyway, he slides both his hands along the graceful curve of Jesus's spine and tuck under his waistband.
"I'll watch out for the puppy," he promises. Overbalancing is partially to do with lack of strength to bear a load, and K certainly doesn't lack that; he waits for Jesus to get a good grip, hands sliding lower until he can hook just under the other man's ass and lift him properly.
He kisses him back as he turns them, as he feels his way to the first stair and eases up them until he's even with Mango. He's practiced the maneuver he does then, scooping the puppy up with the toe of his boot under her ribs and sliding her down out of his way, smoothly and gently, which just leaves the door.
Jesus is strong and agile enough to lean back and get the door open--Nibbles, helpful as ever, darts out to investigate Mango--and then lean right back up to kiss K again.
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For those losses, for the fact that he can't change this. That he took so long to say something, that he's afraid that -
"Is it - are we still okay?" Is he going to pull away from K now like Sara did before she knew she had reason?
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He trails off, looking down at his hands. He's never had anyone to talk to it about before, not that he would talk to about it, which makes it strange.
"This year, maybe," he admits.
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He pulls K down to kiss him. "We'll enjoy the year. Okay?"
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He leans in once he's there though, slow and intent. He does his very best to deserve this affection, to reflect it back sevenfold.
And when he's done, he covers Jesus's hand with his own, turns his head to kiss his palm and murmur, "I already am."
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Which is, maybe, when the new nut subtle note to this might become more pronounced: he wants to stay here. He wants more of this, wants to be close to Jesus, wants to feel like this and whatever else comes with it for however long he has and then just one moment more.
He wants it, and he's sure he can't have it, not for long enough. So he speaks it up while he can, bittersweet and precious.
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The salient point is that he wants K and he might not have him next year.
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"Tell me something new you want," he bids him between kisses, easing them both back against the arm of the sofa behind him.
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Another slower kiss.
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"Fuck me face to face."
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Giddy? He holds steady, lets Jesus rub against him as he will, and says again, "Yes I do."
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But he won't. All the same: "Wherever you want."
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"Or I can do the work."
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"But yes," is the subtle challenge.
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He pulls at the collar of K's shirt, kissing a line along his chest there. "Watch out for the puppy."
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He kisses him back as he turns them, as he feels his way to the first stair and eases up them until he's even with Mango. He's practiced the maneuver he does then, scooping the puppy up with the toe of his boot under her ribs and sliding her down out of his way, smoothly and gently, which just leaves the door.
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"You're good at wrangling her," he teases.
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